Promised to the Crown Read Online Free

daughters,” Sister Charité said as she opened the door to the carriage. “Know that my prayers and good wishes go with you.”
    Rose forced a weak smile for the formidable woman. She waited for Vivienne and Geneviève to take their seats before claiming her own. Rose hesitated as she climbed onto the step of the carriage and onto the worn leather seats. The last carriage she’d traveled in, more than three years before, had been far grander, but brought her to the place of her nightmares. Please God that this rattletrap take me to a brighter future.
    â€œWait!” Vérité called from behind them.
    Rose turned to see her friend rushing from the doors, gasping from the exertion of her run.
    When Vérité reached Rose she removed her necklace, a small silver medallion depicting St. Agnes, and clasped it around her neck. Then she took Rose’s face in her hands and kissed her cheeks.
    â€œI am so sorry . . . these past weeks . . . I just couldn’t . . .” Vérité struggled.
    Rose silenced her friend with a hearty embrace.
    â€œPlease don’t forget me, Rose.” Vérité did not bother to restrain her tears.
    â€œNever,” was all Rose could manage.
    Rose forced herself to board the carriage and watched as Vérité . . . Pauline . . . grew smaller and smaller in the distance. She watched until she could no longer see the face of the one person who had truly loved her these past three years.
    Once out of sight, as much as it pained her, Rose forced herself to turn around and look forward.

C HAPTER 2
    Elisabeth
    August 1667, On the Atlantic Ocean
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    H ell isn’t fire; it’s a frozen abyss. The streets of Paris would be stifling this time of year, Elisabeth Martin thought with a pang of regret. I’ll never be properly warm again, will I? She looked out over the vast gray ocean, her wheat-blond hair blowing loose in the wind, and longed to feel the sun on her shoulders as she wandered the narrow avenues of the Saint-Sulpice district arm in arm with her father, Pierre. The crew said it was colder than usual for summer, but at least the bone-chilling rain had given way to fog. She could only imagine what winter would be like on the open sea.
    To summon warmth on the fog-blanketed ship deck, she tried recalling one of the many fine afternoons in that same Parisian sun that she spent with her father, when they closed his bakery for an hour or two to scout their competition. They judged a baker first by his inventory. Was his supply overflowing at noon? Gone by ten in the morning?
    â€œA good baker makes what the people want,” Pierre repeated to his daughter almost daily, “and enough of it, too. But not so much that it goes to waste. No matter what they preach in the churches, there’s no greater sin in my book, girl.”
    Next, they assessed the creativity of his offerings. Did he sell only baguettes and buns, or did he venture into pastries and cakes? At last, they would taste.
    Truth be told, the tasting was their main objective.
    From the age of fourteen, Elisabeth worked in the bakery as her father’s equal partner. She inherited his work ethic, and he freely admitted her technique and creativity surpassed his own. Were Elisabeth a boy, she might have become a preeminent Parisian pastry chef. As a girl, she could work in her father’s shop, but no more. He raged at the injustice on her behalf, but she loved the days at her father’s side too much to fret over the missed chance at renown.
    Now, after a month at sea, Elisabeth had become so inured to the cold that she could barely summon the memory of the Parisian summer sun. The salty spray that seeped into her bones reminded her of the chilly late-winter day when Elisabeth stood next to her mother in the cemetery, her own large frame towering over the diminutive woman, and watched the grave diggers lower her father into the cold dirt.
    Though the stale air of the hold